


Lapses

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [43]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4298049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan's hangover is the least of his problems, as he rues the lapses in his judgment</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lapses

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 3x02

When he woke up, he had a most _spectacular_ headache. 

The last time Athelstan was in Wessex, he had imbibed only ale and communion wine, once weaning off of the healers' tinctures of poppy when his wounds began to fade. Aside from a glass or two on special feast occasions, he generally had resisted the far-stronger wines Ecbert liked to keep at his table. Life at the time was confusing enough without adding in a lack of clear thinking. Last night, however, he had allowed the indulgence, both to celebrate the seeming success of the move into the settlement, and to keep himself from otherwise-constant worry about how Ragnar and the others were faring in Mercia. Three, perhaps four glasses of the rich, dark liquid had gone down his throat during the meal. That may have been a mistake, he now realized. First, he recalled that perhaps he had been a bit too loose-lipped in discussing religion with Aethelwulf's young wife Judith, and then there was the . . . _thing_ that had happened with Lagertha as he was walking her back to her chamber. 

He rubbed his face as the memory came to him. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing that had happened, per se. While the Christian side of his conscience nagged at him for even considering bedding a woman out of holy wedlock, it wasn't as if doing so was any graver a sin than the ones he regularly committed with Ragnar—less so, in fact, given that they would only have been committing fornication instead of also sodomy and adultery. And by his pagan side, of course, there was no problem at all. They were both free adults by the laws of the Northmen, and thus entitled to choose partners at will. Too, given that Lagertha was now incapable of bearing children, there was even little chance of accidental offspring, barring a Divine-intervention level of miracle. Lingering Christian guilt aside, there was nothing technically wrong with it.

Yet of course it was all wrong anyway, and that realization made his head pound.

In private moments, he had occasionally returned to the memory of Lagertha’s near nakedness as she and Ragnar had propositioned him so many years ago. Their temptation was and always would be vivid in his mind: every sound, every scent, every glimpse of soft, warm flesh. He had, of course, eventually followed through on this temptation with one of the pair—blissfully so, and for reasons that went beyond physical desire. There was always the feeling of a hollow space in his chest when he and Ragnar were parted for more than a day. Yet he still sometimes felt that he also needed to satisfy the other half of the curiosity that had been sparked that night. Few women had ever attracted him the way Ragnar and occasionally other men did, but Lagertha was certainly one of the exceptions, and had always been. Ragnar bringing up the incident back in Kattegat before they had left had rekindled his attraction to her, and now, regularly being close again now after so many years apart had only served to fan that flame. Together with the heartsickness and frustration he felt at his beloved's absence—and rather too much wine—perhaps it was no surprise that he had found himself quickly responding to her touch. Her own reasons for initiating the contact he couldn't begin to guess, but in the light of a morning hangover, his seemed clear.

Even more clear, however, were the reasons she gave for why they shouldn't continue. She was most certainly right about the likely reactions of both Ragnar and Ecbert, and the potentially grave consequences of angering the latter. Ecbert, as he well knew, was not a man who was accustomed to not getting his way. Where Ragnar would merely be hurt at being left out of such a fun event, Ecbert would likely be furious that two of his current obsessions had found pleasure with each other without him. Given the still-delicate political situation, indulging in a night of comfort and curiosity satisfaction with his longtime friend would have been very unwise indeed.

His body, he noted with exasperation, didn't seem to care about that potential one whit now that he was recalling their clinch. For all her strength of body and will, Lagertha’s mouth and skin were soft and sweet, and her sighs as pleasant as music. Used as he was to the rougher feel of a man’s body, the contrast was intoxicating. And as for Ragnar himself, all Athelstan could think of in his regard was exactly how much—and how adorably—he would beg to be included in a repeat performance of the act, once his initial toddler tantrum at missing out on the first had passed. Such a scenario, much like the one that had initially been proposed to him when he was in no spiritual condition to assent, filled his mind with delicious ideas indeed. His head throbbed with the prior evening's overindulgence. Entirely other parts of his anatomy began to throb with his wanton imagination.

There was nothing for it, he finally reasoned, but at least to do something to take the edge off of the frustration. Besides, perhaps it would help drive away his headache. Taking himself in hand, he let his mind and body go where they wished.

Half an hour later, he had to admit defeat. His attempt to stave off desire did fix the headache. It didn't fix the desire. Washing and dressing, he decided to go out to try at least to give himself a distraction. When he was a young monk dealing with unwanted lust, sometimes throwing himself into his work solved the problem. He tied the laces on his belt, and headed for the archives. Surely, nothing there could rekindle in him the feelings he could not indulge. Perhaps doing some work for God might also grant him some mercy, too.

But then _she_ showed up, begging for a confessor. Judith. Aethelwulf’s wife, Aelle’s daughter, and Ecbert’s daughter-in-law. A new mother and a Christian. An even poorer choice for an outlet for his frustration than Lagertha. She came to him desperate and poured forth a cascade of passion and loneliness hiding under a thin layer of guilt and piety, and when it was all done, his senses took leave of him and he couldn’t help giving her at least a kiss. As she scurried out of the room, and his brain returned to some semblance of reasonable thought, he grumbled, and clutched at the cross that rested against his chest.

God, he decided, was surely mocking him.

 

Returning to the settlement—getting out of the villa’s cage-like confines—had been good for him. The purification of hard, manual labor did much to help him clear his head. Lagertha’s presence still tempted, but she herself was far better at controlling such feelings, and thus she did nothing to encourage the still-present attraction between them. He turned instead to the shovel and the hoe, letting their rustic utility take the place of actions far less productive. As he bent his head over the work, however, he saw something running down the handle of the tool and dripping onto the ground. Sweat, he thought at first, and ignored it. Yet then he realized that the pain in his hands was not blisters or a splinter from the rough wood. Neither was it the constant ache from the deep damage underneath his scars. He dropped the shovel and held his hands up, letting a beam of the morning sun illuminate their palms.

And he began to weep.


End file.
